Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

Again heads nodded in assent.

"Fine," Michael said. "That leaves the detailed planning. We know what we want to achieve. Now we need to work out how to do it. We have a lot to think about and not that much time to do it in. So here's how we'll do it. Jayla, you take…"

Michael sat back while the meeting broke up and waved Bienefelt to stay behind. He was still struggling to come to terms with the enormity of the crime they hoped to execute. He had checked; no one in Fed history had planned and executed anything quite so extreme. He smiled. It would be a long time before the name Michael Helfort faded into history, that much was for sure.

Not that he was happy about what he was getting himself, not to mention the rest of the Redwoods, into. It would be dangerous, and success was far from assured. Even if they managed to rescue Anna, they needed to get away from the Hammers, then persuade the NRA and the Nationalists to take them in, not to mention survive long enough to see them topple the Hammer government. Only then would they all be able to go home.

Bienefelt coughed softly. Michael started. He had clean forgotten about her. "Shit, sorry, Matti."

"No problem, sir."

"Just wanted to… you know…"

"Check that what you're doing is the right thing?"

Michael smiled, a rueful half smile of uncertainty tinged with fear. "Am I that obvious?"

"Know you well enough by now, sir."

"You do. Well?"

"Legally, no, it's the wrong thing. Morally? It's arguable, but on balance I think we're on the side of the angels."

"That's where I get to, Matti. Like most things in life, I guess, if it all works out the way we hope it will, it will have been the right thing. If it doesn't…"

"Well, then, we'll just have to make sure it does work out, won't we?"

"We will. One other thing, though. You know now how I feel about the way this war is managed. How are the troops taking things?"

Bienefelt sat back in her chair. "You really want to know, sir?"

"Yes, Matti. I really want to know."

"Well, I shouldn't say this 'cause it's all scuttlebutt, but things are not good out there in the fleet. The kicking we received at Comdur started the rot. I know the Hammers pulled that one out of the hat, I know nobody had any idea they'd found a way to weaponize antimatter, I know there was nothing that anyone in Fleet could have done to avoid the disaster. Even so, being beaten so badly is hard for your average spacer to take, and it does nothing to inspire confidence in the brass. Whether that's right or wrong doesn't matter. It's a fact. Then the Salvation operation followed. I know we won that one, but at what cost? Eleven ships sacrificed by Fleet, including your Anna's Damishqui, because Fleet was too gutless to stand up to the politicians. Eleven ships! All those spacers, all those marines, and for what? For what?"

Bienefelt sighed and rubbed her face with hands the size of hams.

"For nothing," she continued, "all for nothing. We were always going to kick the Hammers' asses. So no wonder spacers began to worry where the hell this war was going to end up. After that came Devastation Reef. I know we won that one big time, but even the dumbest spacer was able to work out that was only because the dreadnoughts saved Fleet's backside… no, not the dreadnoughts, you, sir. You saved Fleet," Bienefelt said fiercely. "And the troops know it. The fact that most Fleet officers feel you did it the wrong way has pissed them off big time. Every spacer I speak to thinks the decision to stop the dreadnought project is madness, total madness. So what do they have to look forward to now? Five more years of war, at least. Jeez, that's if they're lucky. Plenty of spacers think this war will never end. Never! Even if it is only five more years, like Chief Fodor said, five years for what? We can't win this war until every ship carries antimatter weapons, which won't happen inside ten years no matter how much money we throw at it, and why are we surprised? Took the Hammers the best part of fifty years to work out how to make enough of the damn stuff to be useful. That means the Hammers can build a new antimatter plant to replace the one we destroyed at Devastation Reef, then do another Comdur on us." Bienefelt paused for a moment. "Though there's another possibility," she continued.

"Which is?"

"That the war will end sooner than we think."

"How?" Michael said with a puzzled frown.

"When the Hammers beat us. Fleet says five years. Who says that's right? The Hammers must know that the sooner they restore their antimatter capability, the sooner they can destroy our fleet. Then it's game over. I wouldn't bet my life on us having that long."

"Shit! There's a cheery thought," Michael muttered.

"There's worse."

"Jeezus!" Michael said. "What could be worse?"

"Fleet. Never mind the Hammers; they have their own problems," Bienefelt said. "You heard the latest rumor?"

Michael shook his head. "Rumor? What rumor?"

"More than a rumor. Palmyra's crew mutinied."

Michael's eyes opened wide with shock. "Shit! I didn't know that."

"That's because nobody's supposed to. Fleet's trying to keep it real tight." She sniffed, a sharp sound of utter disdain. "As if they could keep a lid on something that big. Anyway, it seems half the spacers refused to let the ship deploy on combat operations. Palmyra's marines managed to keep a lid on it until reinforcements arrived, but things turned ugly."

"Casualties?"

"Don't know for sure," Bienefelt said, shaking her head. "You know the rumor mill, but word is there were some."

Michael sat, stunned into silence. There had not been a fullblown mutiny on a Federated Worlds warship in living memory; the last one was on the old Fortress back in '32, and that was a very minor affair involving only a handful of spacers.

"There's more, sir."

Michael flinched. "More?" he said.

"Afraid so. There was a riot in the Comdur Fleet canteen, a bad one. Big bunch of spacers trashed the joint, barricaded themselves in. Needed the marines backed up by naval police to retake the joint. Lot of spacers hurt, some badly-"

"Holy shit!"

"And there's been an increase in unexplained defects according to a friend of mine in one of the heavy maintenance units. Fleet canceled an operation last week because so many ships went unserviceable at the last minute. Too much of a coincidence to be anything but sabotage."

"Bloody hell, why am I the last one to find out?" Michael said, voice taut with anger; Fleet's summary of operation had said only that Palmyra was being pulled out of the line because of main engine problems. "So what's it all mean, Matti?"

"What it means is this. Fleet spacers are pissed: pissed at the Hammers, pissed at the politicians, pissed at the admirals, pissed at the way Fleet's conducting this war, pissed because there's no way out of the mess we've landed ourselves in."

"And you can't fight a war if the troops are pissed," Michael said.

"No, you can't. And don't be surprised if there's more of the same. Palmyra might not be the last. I'd lay good money down that it's just the first."

Michael half smiled. "Given what we just talked about, I think we can be sure of that, Matti."

Bienefelt smiled back. "You know what I mean, sir. What we're planning is different. More to the point, it's what we should do. Sure as hell better than doing nothing, hoping things get better."

"Maybe. Doesn't matter. Decision's made. Anyway, thanks for your faith in me, Matti. Let's hope it's not misplaced."

"I don't think it is. Permission to carry on, sir?"

"Please."

Michael watched with mixed feelings as Matti's hulking mass squeezed through the door. Even though she had told him a lot he had not known-the Palmyra mutiny was a huge shock-none of it changed what he already knew: Fleet was in trouble, and if Fleet was in trouble, then so were the Federated Worlds.